


who can it be now?

by boom_slap



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Haunting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: "As much as Andrés has been prepared to let Death in and offer Her a glass of wine before departure, he was also glad when the end has been postponed, because he could go back to the stone walls he’s grown to callhome, where he could finally finish what he’d started years ago.The only problem was, his home was haunted."
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 114
Kudos: 179





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so.  
> For anyone who's read _What Ever Happened to Martín Berrote_ , this one is kind of a remix.  
> Now. There's a possibility that it's going to be even more depressing, so there's that, please be careful with the media you consume, etc.  
> Don't forget to leave a comment and/or harass me on social media!

The monastery was the perfect place for creating the Bank of Spain plan, Andrés’ masterpiece, his _Symphony No. 9_ , his _David_ , the work of his life, a golden crown that was meant to rest upon his temples when Death would inevitably come to greet him.

As much as Andrés has been prepared to let Death in and offer Her a glass of wine before departure, he was also glad when the end has been postponed, because he could go back to the stone walls he’s grown to call _home,_ where he could finally finish what he’d started years ago.

The only problem was, his home was haunted.

The first thing haunting the monastery was an absence. It was nothing surprising, because why would Martín be there after Andrés has sent him away? His point was to keep Martín away, after all. Besides, him and Sergio knew the plan well enough, they were smart enough. Martín was, thankfully, not needed.

Still, Andrés missed him. He missed his enthusiasm, his passion, his humor, his wide smile and his eyes, clouded with feverish madness, with love.

The second haunting was a presence or, according to some of the gang, _a ghost._ Now, Andrés did appreciate a dose of horror, but that was simply childish. There was something off in the monastery, though, there was something unfamiliar about it, something _hostile_ , even. Andrés would have gladly ignored all of that, but with every passing day, it was messing with their heads more and more, making them unable to focus on the plan.

Nairobi and Helsinki kept on saying that they were hearing footsteps, Tokio was on edge, claiming to be seeing shadows out of the corner of her eye, Denver and Estocolmo argued that their room was unnaturally cold. Even Bogotá and Marsella said that something was wrong, that they’ve heard knocking on their doors, multiple times, only to open them and see that there was no one there.

Sergio was assuring them, over and over again, that the monastery was old, that their imagination was a wild, uncontrollable thing, but Andrés knew his brother, and he was both disappointed and disturbed by the fear he could see in his eyes.

If Martín were there, he would’ve laughed in their faces. He would’ve come up with a valid explanation for every strange occurrence in no time, probably. He would’ve mocked all of them for hours on end for being so faint-hearted. Better even, he would’ve only explained whatever happened to Andrés - and then they would have both tried to scare the others with some well-crafted pranks. Andrés would’ve pretended to be above such childish games, he would’ve pretended to only engage to let Martín have some fun, but in the end, he would’ve enjoyed it endlessly, too.

But Martín wasn't there, and the only person that seemed as sceptical as Andrés was Raquel. She hasn’t been spewing any _ghost stories_ ; that is, until their dinner one night, when they started talking about the dreams.

“I’m exhausted, but I would rather stay awake than go to sleep,” Tokio said, rubbing at her eyes. “I keep having nightmares.”

“Same,” Denver murmured, staring down at the table. “What are yours about?”

“A wedding.”

The words made the whole gang freeze. Slowly, they raised their gazes at Tokio, their eyes wide and disbelieving, including Raquel’s. Tokio picked at her lip with the tips of her fingers, fidgety like a psych ward patient.

“There’s always a bride, and my throat always seems tight, and- it’s not even that scary, that’s all there is, but I keep waking up feeling sick. And the bride-”

“-is without a face,” Nairobi finished in a quiet voice. Tokio looked up at her, then at the others.

“You, too?”

They all nodded, all of them save for Andrés and Sergio, who was white as a sheet and whose hand was shaking where it rested against the table as if he were the one with the sickness, not Andrés.

Andrés wasn’t having any nightmares. Or rather - he couldn’t remember any. He’s been waking up in the middle of the night, back covered in sweat and heart pounding against his ribs, his room feeling cold and unfamiliar; unreal, even. But the threads of his nightmares slipped through his fingers every single time before he could take a hold of them.

“Professor?” Raquel asked, her voice quiet and soft as if she were using Sergio’s actual name instead of his alias. Sergio only shook his head, his lips tight.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, voice strained. “It’s just your imagination.”

“Of course it is,” Andrés rolled his eyes, getting up. “This is not some summer camp where you get to tell spooky stories by the fire. Get yourselves together.”

With that, he left the room. His steps took him to one of the balconies, his body knowing that it needed fresh air. Walking out, he realized that this particular place used to be one of Martín’s spots - he would hide there to smoke, because Andrés would always chastise him about it. Truth be told, Andrés has learned to associate the faint scent of nicotine with Martín; it grew to be almost comforting.

Smirking at the memory, he stepped to the corner of the balcony, crouched down and took a look into the small space between the wall and the stone pillar and - _oh,_ there they were, even after all these years. Two creased, frayed packs of _MS_ ’s and a box of matches that Andrés picked up, getting back to his feet. He pulled out one cigarette, put it in his mouth and lit it up - it tasted like an abomination and the smoke scratched at his throat, but the smell was familiar, calming.

He had to admit, he was annoyed by the whole situation, by the fact that nobody, not even Sergio, seemed to be able to think rationally; moreover, he was annoyed at himself for letting the stories get into his head, his subconscious making it impossible for him to enjoy a good night’s sleep.

Martín would have stayed sane about this. Andrés caught himself thinking that his friend was, for the first time in almost five years, only ten hours away. He could, potentially, take the car and drive to Palermo, if only to have a chance to talk to someone who would understand him. Sure, Martín would probably make a scene, seeing Andrés again, but in the end, they were still _soulmates_ , their connection deeper than anything that could happen.

The heavy, wooden door behind his back opened with a loud creak, some of the light from the corridor pouring out onto the balcony, and Andrés sighed before taking another drag of the cigarette.

“We should impose more discipline, _hermanito_ , I fear that all of them are going mad,” he said, but his words were met with silence. Groaning, he turned around and saw that the door was still open, but the light was gone and there was nobody on the balcony but him.

It started getting worse over the course of the next week. Things began to move - _allegedly_ \- on their own account. Even Raquel insisted that in the room she was sharing with Sergio, books have been falling off the shelves, the window would open and close by itself, the lights would flicker, the floor would creak.

“The monastery is old,” Andrés has grew tired of repeating the phrase. He was tired in general, the elusive nightmares torturing him every night, clawing away at his mind, making it unable to fall asleep for more than two, three hours at a time.

During the classes, Sergio was speaking feverishly, nervously, keeping his gaze down only to glance up from time to time, not at any of them, though, but at one of the walls, or at the exit, or into the corridor. He was fidgety, _scared_ , and Andrés found himself worrying for him. Sometimes, Sergio would seem to be looking at Andrés, but in reality, his eyes were lingering on the space around him, never meeting Andrés’ own.

One night, when he woke up gasping for air and shivering in fear, Andrés decided he couldn’t stay in his room; it was too suffocating. He wrapped his robe around his body, wincing at the way it immediately stuck against the sweaty skin, and walked out into the corridor.

He noticed that at the end of it, there was light on in the chapel, and soft music was filling the otherwise still air. He let out a small breath when he recognized the tune - _Felicità_. He liked it well enough, it was the first song Martín has ever learned in Italian, the one he would hum whenever in a particularly good mood, either while working on the plan, tapping his fingers against the table, or while resting, strumming along on his guitar, with Andrés reading or drawing on the other side of the room. The simple, pleasant melody actually soothed some of Andrés’ nerves, raw and exposed from whatever terror haunted him in his sleep.

Andrés walked into the chapel, expecting to find Sergio there, or maybe Marsella, or Bogotá, or Nairobi, or even Helsinki; no one was there, though. Someone must have forgotten about the record and the light, so Andrés turned off the old recorder and switched off the lights. He walked out and was halfway back to his room, when he heard a click and a scratch.

_Felicita e tenersi per mano_

_Andare lontano, la felicita_

Light poured from the chapel once again and Andrés froze in his spot, a chill running down his spine. He turned around, slowly, and headed back to the chapel to turn it all off, once again.

This time around, he didn’t even make it out before the lamp was on again and the music was playing, the steady rhythm of the song echoing in Andrés’ head as he spun around one more time. He looked around, as if to make sure no one was there, he caught his reflection in the window and it almost scared him, but there was nobody, _nobody_ else _._

He stepped to the record player and turned it off.

He barely pulled his hand away before he watched with wide eyes as the needle moved, as if by an invisible hand. It touched the vinyl and Romina Power sang again.

Andrés backed away, unable to understand what he just saw; the sane part of his mind was telling him that it was the insomnia, that he was exhausted and troubled with nightmares, that the stories spewed by the others certainly didn’t help.

Feeling the armchair behind him, he sank down into it, not tearing his gaze away from the record player. He stared and listened as the old vinyl played over and over again, the once familiar tune becoming strange and aberrant to his ears.

After a while, Andrés noticed that the chapel has become much colder; he was shivering. Still, he found himself unable to move.

He had no idea how much time has passed before Sergio walked into the chapel. Andrés looked up at him; he had stopped in the entrance and was staring at Andrés, or rather - somewhere into the space above his shoulder. He was pale, he had dark circles under his eyes and his lips were pressed into a thin line. Slowly, his gaze moved towards the player.

The record scratched and stopped, and the silence was deafening.

“Andrés,” Sergio’s voice was quiet and hoarse, reaching Andrés’ ears with some delay. Sergio walked over to him and offered a hand; Andrés took it, glad for the warm touch, and stood up.

“I need-” he cleared his throat, “I need to lie down.”

He didn’t know whose hand was shaking. Sergio nodded and they walked out of the chapel, not bothering to turn off the light.

As they were walking down the corridor, it flickered out by itself.


	2. Chapter 2

The nightmares were getting worse; at one point, Andrés woke up screaming into his pillow. Still, he had no idea what scared him that much, what made him _hurt_ that much. Truth be told, that was the most frightening part.

He reached for the lamp on the nightstand and clicked on the switch, but it didn’t work; it wasn’t that surprising, the monastery was old and electricity failures were not uncommon.

The experimental meds he’d started taking seemed to be doing their job, but still, his fingers shook when he lit a match from the box he’d snatched from the balcony, and put it to a candle. The wick caught flame, but Andrés didn’t even have the time to place the candle on the nightstand before it flickered and died down.

He took another match and tried again. The exact same thing happened, and Andrés’ exhausted brain tried to force him to think he’d felt a puff of cold air against his fingers.

The third time, he could swear he’s heard it, too: a quiet huff, as if the candle hasn’t been blown out by some micro air current in the vast monastery, but by _someone’s breath_.

His ears picked up another sound, muffled by the stone walls, slipping into the room through the crack under the door - _Felicità_ , again, playing even though the recorder had no right to be working if there was no electricity.

Andrés refused to panic. He was tired, tired, _exhausted_ , he was sleepless and weary and that was it. He slipped back under the covers, pressing his face into the pillow.

Truth was, Andrés hated sleeping in an empty bed. He didn’t really _need_ other people’s company, he was perfectly able to function on his own like a well-oiled machine, but he liked having others in his life. He liked closeness.

He thought back to his wives, to Tatiana, ethereal and beautiful, falling lightly onto the mattress and covering his face with playful kisses before curling up next to him, her hair and skin soft under his hands.

He thought about Sergio, when he was still just a kid, and Andrés would climb onto the hospital bed, letting Sergio hold his hand until he fell asleep. Andrés didn’t know much about love back then, but the way Sergio grew to trust him over time made him want to protect him with everything he had.

He thought about those times when he would fall asleep next to Martín, in a cheap motel room after a heist or in the chapel, both of them finally giving in to tiredness after hours of working on the plan, Martín’s head a pleasant weight on his shoulder where they were stretched out on the chaise longue, his breath deep and steady; he would snore quietly, too, because his nose was just a little crooked, the air flowing through with just the tiniest bit of difficulty; it was easy to hear it when he talked, when he breathed, when he _cried_ , when Andrés has left him.

He wanted to go. He wanted to get out of bed, take the car, drive for the rest of the night and the whole morning to find Martín, to wrap his arms around him and _sleep;_ to breathe in his scent which he could still faintly remember, to touch him again, such a warm, lovely thing, to hear the soft sound of his breathing.

Such were the thoughts that finally made Andrés slip back into slumber, hushing him like a long-forgotten lullaby.  
  


He woke up at dawn, not well-rested, but at least not as terrified as before.

He put his robe on and padded to the kitchen, sure that it would be empty, but once he walked in, he saw Sergio and Raquel.

His brother was sitting down with his head bowed, Raquel standing over him and rubbing circles into his back, her other hand tangled in Sergio’s messy hair. Her eyes were clouded with worry as she looked up at Andrés; it was clear that she had trouble sleeping, too.

“Do you want me to talk about the vault today?” Andrés asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Sergio nodded, his eyes closed.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to explain it perfectly,” he said in a hoarse voice, reaching for his own coffee mug; before he could grasp it, it moved. All three of them stared as the mug drifted, agonizingly slowly, towards the edge of the table, scraping against the wood. Finally, it fell to the floor, breaking to pieces with a crash loud enough to make Raquel and Sergio twitch.

“... that’s the third time this week,” Raquel spoke quietly after a moment of silence and Andrés frowned.

“That’s rather unfortunate,” he sighed, gripping his cup tightly to keep up the facade of cool sarcasm. “Should we get the monks? Have them exorcise the place, maybe? Shouldn’t we be doing some voodoo, burning cedar or something like that?”

Raquel glared at him and he forced a grin, placing the cup on the counter to raise his hands in a flamboyant gesture, imitating a priest or a shaman.

“Begone, evil spirits!” he called in a booming voice. “Let us cleanse this accursed place of any lost so-”

Before he could finish, his cup flung itself off the counter and smashed against the opposing wall, causing Andrés to jump.

“Oh, for _fuck’s sake_!” he groaned; Sergio didn’t move an inch, so Andrés turned on his heel and left the room, coffee be damned.

On the way, he could swear he’s heard footsteps echoing his own until he stepped into his room and slammed the door shut. Sitting down on the bed, he thought, once again, about leaving for Palermo, about going to _Martín_ , since Sergio, apparently, was losing his mind just like everyone else. _Andrés_ was losing his mind, too; he saw the mug and the cup moving on their own, and the needle of the record player, he’s seen the flickering lights, he’s heard the footsteps, and the music, he’s felt the _presence_ in his room.

His breath was quick and shallow and he realized he was working himself up into panic, which wasn’t a surprise since his home has turned into a suffocating mockery of one, a place that tormented him, that wouldn’t give him a moment of peace.

He wanted it back; he wanted Martín back, too, it all felt wrong from the very beginning, going through with the plan without him, with a group of almost strangers. Sure, they bonded in Toledo and in the Mint, sure, he even _liked_ them, and Marsella and Bogotá were there, too, but none of them came even _close_ to what Martín meant to him. Martín was indispensable; even though Andrés disposed of him, but that was _before,_ when he could feel Death’s sticky breath on the back his neck, when the thought of following Sergio and dying for his dream was a comforting one; now, his situation was similar, the Bank plan was even more dangerous and he _wouldn’t_ let Martín die there, but it’s been five years, and he was missing him.

He was being selfless, he reminded himself, for once in his life. For once, the need for having someone wasn’t stronger than the will to protect them. He preferred for Martín to hate him, he preferred him heartbroken and away than _dead_. He couldn’t go to him.

Instead, Andrés closed his eyes and tried to imagine the little flat in Palermo, the first rays of the morning sun coming in through the curtains; Martín, most probably still asleep, wrapped up in the covers, peaceful, unbothered by any nightmares.

The image made it easier to swallow around the oppressive atmosphere of the monastery.  
  


By the time he had to stand in front of the team, Andrés had pulled himself together. He shushed the whispered conversations of _la banda_ , putting a finger to his lips. Once everyone was quiet, he smiled.

“Forget about hauntings and ghosts for a moment,” he said. “Let them roam the halls. Today, we have a much greater problem before us. I’m going to tell you how to break into the vault.”

There was a murmur, and an exchange of glances. Andrés winked at them, reaching for a folder and pulling out the paper with exact data… only to find it scraped out, not a single number visible, all of it covered in black ink.

He clenched his fist, crumpling up the paper, and began his explanations using whatever he could remember. Sergio wasn’t even looking at him from where he was leaning against the wall in a corner, hands folded over his chest.

As Andrés talked and talked about hydraulics and thermodynamics, he noticed that the chapel was getting colder again. He knew it wasn’t just him feeling it, too - Helsinki zipped up his jacket, while Nairobi sunk further into her fur coat, and Estocolmo was rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

He gritted his teeth and continued stubbornly, up until the point where he could see his breath. Then, he shut his mouth, eyes widening as he glanced at Sergio, who held little resemblance to the brother Andrés knew and loved; he was shivering, more so than anyone else.

“... anyway, this is our plan for getting in,” Andrés said. He was just about to add that they’ll explain it some more after dinner, but an awful sound of tearing fabric beat him to it. He saw the shocked expressions on his teammates’ faces first and then, turned around slowly to see his own portrait _destroyed._

There was a huge tear right in the middle of the canvas.

He wanted to open his mouth and say something; a dismissal, a sarcastic comment, anything that would somehow cut through the tension in the cold air, but then, chalk scratched over the board, the sound high and revolting. Andrés watched, dazed, as an invisible hand wrote letter after letter, putting together a word.

 _LIARS_ , said the chalkboard.

Andrés stared at the word, trying to make sense of it and of his destroyed painting. Up until this point, everything that was happening, whether real or an effect of some collective hysteria, could still be dismissed, even if it was a nuisance.

Now, however, it looked like it was something _personal_ and that always meant trouble.

“... class dismissed. I need to talk to the Professor and figure out a way to deal with this whole situation.”

Andrés’ tone left no room for questions. Besides, the chapel was still cold and the air was heavy with something clearly hostile, so his teammates scattered quickly, throwing worried, frightened glances over their shoulders.

Once they were gone and the echo of their footsteps faded away, Andrés turned to his brother.

Sergio’s back was hunched, his face hidden in his hands, and Andrés felt his insides twist in pure _fear._


	3. Chapter 3

Before he spoke, Andrés stared at Sergio for a long moment. He’s taken it for granted, at first, that Sergio would be reasonable about the whole situation. Then, he’s mistaken his behaviour for exhaustion; Sergio was resigned, _haunted_ , afraid. It annoyed Andrés before it began worrying him.

Now, he was worried and afraid. Sergio looked completely defeated, hopeless, broken; Andrés has never seen him like that. Worse even, he couldn’t _understand,_ couldn’t find any reason that would possibly explain his brother’s state.

Unless-

“What is happening?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet and leveled. Sergio shook his head, still covering his face with his hands.

“ _Sergio_.”

Even though he didn’t raise his voice, Sergio made himself smaller, leaning forward. The chapel seemed to be buzzing with energy, making Andrés’ head spin. He felt something not unlike wind tugging at his clothes and hair, and he noticed that the same thing was happening to his brother.

“You know something,” Andrés said, disbelieving, clenching his fists. His ears were ringing. “You know something about this. _Tell me_.”

He flinched, because a strangle, muffled sound reached his ears - like a scream. He was sure it wasn’t Sergio who’d let it out; it sounded far off, distant. He tore his eyes away from Sergio just in the right moment to see a chair getting slammed against the wall. He took a shaky step back.

The chapel was coming to life before his very eyes - next thing he knew, papers were being pushed off the desk, drawers pulled out and thrown across the floor as another not-quite a scream tore through the atmosphere, like a rumble of a storm; Andrés had to jump to the side, with his heart beating furiously against his ribs, to avoid getting hit by a lamp that smashed to pieces right next to Sergio who then finally, _finally_ broke, stepping away from the wall, looking up, his hands falling to his sides - he was crying, Andrés noticed, why was he crying -

“Martín, _stop it!_ ”

Sergio’s voice was like a cry of a hurt animal.

Then, there was silence.

“What do you mean,” the words crawled their way out of Andrés’ throat before his mind could make any sense of any of it, “ _Martín_?”

Sergio didn’t say anything, but he looked frightened, his hands shaking visibly, his gaze begging, desperate.

Andrés’ thoughts were slowly catching up with reality, coming together although he didn’t want them to, what he wanted was to turn back right there and then, and walk away, and drive to Palermo, drive all the way to Palermo-

“What the _fuck_ do you mean, _Martín_?!” he hasn't registered the fact that he was stalking over to Sergio until his hands were twisting into the man’s jacket, pulling him down until they both landed on the cold stone floor, Andrés straddling Sergio and shaking him. He’s never been violent towards his brother, _never_ towards his _hermanito_ , the most important person in his life, _no,_ one of the _two_ most important, because Martín-

“He’s dead,” Sergio choked out, tears escaping his eyes and disappearing into his hair. “I’m sorry, Andrés, _I’m so sorry_.”

“No,” is what Andrés said, because it didn’t make any sense. The record player, the dreams described by the gang, the portrait and the word on the chalkboard, it did make sense if Martín was dead, but his apparent death _didn’t_ make sense. Andrés has protected him. He’s given up on their bond to _save him._ To have Martín living and breathing in his favourite city, away from Andrés, but _safe_ in his little flat that Andrés used to scowl at, but in reality, he found it lovely, and warm, and welcoming.

“I-... I went to Palermo, before we came here. I couldn’t figure out some of the problems, I needed to ask Martín,” Sergio spat, frustration creeping into his tone because of course he would be angry at himself for _not knowing_ something, for having to admit it out loud. “There was a risk of him demanding to join in, but I had no choice, but-... The flat was rented out to someone else, and I thought maybe he’d moved, but then this old woman, his neighbour, she told me-... she told me…”

“What,” Andrés hissed, pulling on Sergio’s jacket so hard he was lifting his upper body from the ground, “happened to him?”

“... he drank himself to death.”

Andrés felt hollow, a terrifying sense of emptiness overwhelming him. He pulled away slightly, looking down at Sergio, his hands falling to his sides.

“When?” he asked, and his voice was small.

Sergio winced, closing his eyes.

“Two years ago.”

Andrés’ head spun and he almost lost his balance. _Two years_. For two years, he’s been comforting himself with the thought of Martín being somewhere out there.

Sergio opened his eyes and his gaze slipped over Andrés’ face before fixing itself somewhere over his shoulder. Andrés shuddered.

“... you can see him,” he stated instead of asking. “He’s been here from the beginning, and you could see him. And you said nothing.”

Sergio swallowed and nodded.

“Where.”

“...right next to you.”

Slowly, Andrés turned his head to the side. For a moment, the only sound in the chapel was his ragged breathing, as well as Sergio’s.

“I can’t see him.”

“I don’t know why, Andrés,” Sergio was speaking more calmly now, obviously in pain, but relieved of secrecy. “I don’t understand any of this.”

Andrés pulled himself up to his feet, his legs feeling like cotton. He remembered Sergio looking in his direction many times without really looking _at him_. He remembered him staring off into a corner during their meals, or throwing feverish glances as he spoke in class. Now, Andrés knew that he's been saying Martín all that time.

What did he look like, he wondered, to have turned Sergio into such a mess.

“Did you tell Raquel?” he gritted out, jaw set tight, clenching his fists to keep his hands from shaking.

“No. I was hoping that maybe-... It wouldn't get that bad,” Sergio sat up, his hand coming to rest against the lapel of his jacket where Andrés had grabbed him. Poor Sergio, willing to suffer silently to assure that everything went smoothly. “Andrés-”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Sergio called after him when he walked out of the chapel, but he ignored him, heading to his room, his throat tightening more and more with every step, as if there was an invisible noose around it.

He'd wanted to cry, he knew it would have been a reasonable reaction, an expected one, but he couldn't. He couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Martín was gone, that Andrés' hope for him was nothing but an illusion.

He died, he was dead, because Andrés has left and he's taken their dream with him, he's shattered it and how could he not have _seen_? Just how much Martín had to love him to destroy himself in such a way? It wasn't even suicide, not the kind that one thinks about upon hearing the word; _suicide_ means either impulsive, quick and violent; or premeditated, born out of a long-lasting misery, but either way, it's still a _decision._ What happened to Martín was… complete self-destruction, a desperate attempt to soothe his pain with poison, he got swallowed down by darkness, he exhausted himself, he wrecked himself, he… wasted away.

All of his potential, his energy, his laughter, his passion, all of it - gone. Wasted. Withered.

 _Not quite_ , he was reminded when the door creaked and opened slowly. Andrés didn't move from where he was lying on the bed, staring at the wall.

Martín was there. Martín was still there, although it wasn't really _him,_ was it now? It was a ghost, a shadow, nothing like the person; nothing like Andrés' friend and soulmate.

He found himself angry - at Sergio, at himself, but at Martín, too, for having done this to himself, for not trying to save himself while Andrés has tried so hard to do so. He found himself furious at this bitter wraith, this grotesque imitation of Martín haunting his home, mocking him at every step, trying to make him break in front of everyone.

"Go away," he said, hands still shaking. A second later, the door slammed shut. 

Andrés felt sick, so he didn't go to dinner. Instead, he waited until the evening, listening to the footsteps echoing in the corridors and to the sounds of a storm outside. Finally, he got out of bed, smoothed down his clothes and went to look for Sergio.

He found him in that damned chapel, scribbling something down. Sergio looked up and jumped to his feet at the sight of him.

"Andrés-..."

"Is he in here?"

Sergio paled. Slowly, he shook his head.

"No. He-... he followed you when you left and I haven't seen him since. Sometimes, he just- stays in his old room, I guess, that's why Denver and Estocolmo complain that it's cold all the time."

"Lovely," Andrés said, watching with a kind of twisted satisfaction as Sergio's eyes widened at his sarcastic, dry tone.

"Andrés, I'm-"

"Yes, you're sorry, I know. I would be too if I were you. Although it's quite clear why you've done what you've done. Couldn't have me being unstable before the heist, now could you?" he smirked when Sergio bowed his head in shame. "You've tried your best to keep it together, but we're still heading towards disaster. Everyone is on the edge, and all those… _incidents_."

He stepped closer and Sergio met his gaze again, clearly confused by his whole demeanor. Andrés didn't really understand why. There was only one possible course of action in the situation they've found themselves in.

"We have to deal with this as soon as possible, don't you agree?" somehow, his lips managed to stretch into a toothy grin.

"What do you mean?" Sergio frowned, looking around nervously. Andrés wondered if Martín - if the ghost - could appear out of thin air.

He took a deep breath.

"We have to get rid of him."


	4. Chapter 4

It took a surprisingly long time to convince Sergio that getting rid of the ghost was their only option, but finally, Andrés' poor, exhausted brother nodded, his face an epitome of misery.

Neither of them knew anything about the paranormal, aside from a few horror stories Andrés has once read. Hence, he decided to go and ask the monks of they had any… resources.

He brought back a bunch of books and stacked them on top of the desk in the chapel.

"Look for something intent, I don't care for burning sage and casting spells," he told Sergio as they both sat down to look through the books.

It took them awhile, with Sergio glancing up every few minutes to see if Martín was somewhere around. Finally, Sergio pushed one of the books in Andrés' direction, his hands shaking only slightly.

"Here," he said, stabbing the page repeatedly with his finger. "It says that to banish a ghost permanently, you have to-... well, you have to burn the bones."

"Charming," Andrés muttered, frowning down at the book. "So he wasn't cremated, but buried."

He refused to utter the name. What's dead was dead.

"Yes," Sergio cleared his throat. "I, uh-... I went to the cemetery. In Altofonte. To… pay my respects."

Andrés stared at him for a moment before he burst out laughing, the sound sharp and humorless.

" _Pay your respects_ , _hermanito_? Save me this bullshit, please. As if he was ever anything more than a pawn to you. Or, should I say, an obstacle?"

Sergio pressed his lips together.

"He was human, first and foremost."

Andrés sighed, getting up to his feet.

"I'm taking the car. Tell them- I don't know, tell them I went to the Vatican to look for an exorcist. Come up with a story, entertain them, whatever," he said, waving a hand.

Sergio didn't say anything as Andrés left the chapel. 

He had decided to try and get some sleep, but it turned out to be impossible; each time Andrés dozed off, he would wake up after an hour, maybe two. This time however, he could remember the dreams. He dreamt of the tears running down Martín's face, of his gaze - desperate, heartbroken, disbelieving.

Around 5 in the morning, Andrés decided that it was pointless anyway. The problem needed to be dealt with immediately, exhaustion be damned.   
  


The road to Palermo was difficult, it was raining heavily between Florence and Rome, and Andrés nearly crashed the car _twice_ ; he was in a hurry, and his shaking hands and tired mind didn't help his ability to drive.

Southern Italy was warmer as usual, although not at all pleasant. The air was sultry and taking a breath didn't feel like getting enough oxygen at all. When Andrés reached the city, it was already late afternoon and the streets were giving off the heat they've gathered during the day. He'd parked the car in the southern outskirts of the city, near the neighbourhood Martín's lived in.

Lived and died in.

When he found himself in front of the old building, he told himself that his feet had carried him there out of habit, although it's been more than five years. Half as long as he'd known Martín.

Andrés let his gaze wander up, to the window of his apartment. He tried to imagine Martín there, strumming on his guitar or drinking coffee or reading, but-... he couldn’t, not anymore. Martín wasn't there. The reality was painfully obvious, like a knife lodged deep in his chest. The building was nothing but a carcass. 

Andrés decided to take the long walk to the cemetery in Altofonte, since he had to wait for the night to fall anyway. Every step of the way felt heavy, foreboding. He didn't want to see.

God, he didn't want to see the grave.

The cemetery was old, falling apart in some places, surrounded by thick, yellowish walls. The view was amazing, though, the whole city of Palermo stretching before Andrés' eyes.

It took him a moment to find it, a small grave as if tucked away in the corner, a simple stone panel with the name and the dates. Andrés stopped in front of it and stared.

When he'd learnt he was sick, he was thirty-nine years old and it felt like the world has collapsed around him.

Martín was thirty-seven when he died.

Thirty-seven.

Andrés couldn't even know if he'd passed away before or after his birthday, because the inscription only indicated the year, not the exact day.

There was no exact date. There was no date and Andrés would never know.

He noticed a small bouquet of withered flowers. _Sergio_ , he realized. He had no idea how it made him feel. He couldn't feel anything, really. Just like with the nightmares that refused to come back in the morning light, this was frightening exactly because there was nothing.

There was a grave, a body buried in the ground, turning into bones, but Martín wasn't there. He wasn't there anymore.

Andrés took a deep breath and looked up. The cemetery was empty, so he decided to walk around and prepare himself for what was about to come. 

When the night had fallen, Andrés took the car and went to the cemetery again. He's bought everything he needed at a gas station near Naples. They didn't even close the gate, so there was no need to break in, the difficult part was removing the panel and digging.

It took a good while before he reached the casket. It was still intact, thank fuck for that, although Andrés scowled at the low quality, at the simplicity, at the misery of it all. His throat was tight and it burned, but he swallowed around the pain, climbing out of the grave because there was no way in hell he would open the casket, not when he was sure that he was going to find rot. Andrés could do many things, but not this.

It felt wrong. It felt wrong and awful and _unfair_ to pour petrol into the grave. Andrés told himself it was nothing, it didn't matter, what lay in the pit was just a wreckage, Rimbaud's _Bateau ivre_ that has crashed and sunk.

His hands shook violently when he lit the match (from the box he'd taken from the balcony, where Martín would hide behind the pillar as if he didn't know that Andrés knew, and he would come back smelling of nicotine, with hair ruffled by the wind and cheeks reddened from the cold).

The fire burned high and intense, and Andrés couldn't look away from it. He stayed for as long as he could, because it felt almost like a funeral, before he'd heard sirens in the distance.

He ran to the car. This time however, he'd stopped for a moment to look over his shoulder at the bloody glow of the flame against the night sky. 

Before heading back, Andrés drove to the shore; he washed himself in the salty water, knowing that he would regret not looking for a hotel, just as he'd regretted not hiring someone to do the job for him. Still, the sea at night seemed even vaster than usual, black like spilled ink, and the water was cool and soothing.

Andrés was exhausted. He crawled back into the car, curled up in the backseat and let the familiar sound of waves crashing against the shore lull him to sleep.

In his dream, the backseat of the car turned into the couch in Martín's apartment, and the sounds of the sea - into those of a coffee machine.

_Andrés, why do you always sleep in at my place?  
_

He never really slept in, he just pretended to; he would crack his eyes open to watch Martín humming and dancing around the kitchen, still sleepy and less guarded than he usually was, happy. He was always so happy to have Andrés in Palermo. 

When Andrés woke up, he knew for sure it was, by some miracle, already morning. The seagulls were loud, there was a pleasant breeze coming through the open window of the car, a little further away, he could hear the traffic. He had to go.

Still, he kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, trying to imagine that if he were to open them, he would see Martín with two cups of coffee. 

Finally, Andrés left Palermo behind. What he had to do was painful, but it was necessary and even if it hasn't lifted much weight from his shoulders, he still felt like he _managed_ . Besides, he was, for once, rested, and the road back to the monastery was calm.

Until he reached the monastery itself, that is. He got out of the car and was greeted by Denver running down the hill towards him.

"Thank FUCK," he yelled. "Did you get us an exorcist? What took you so fucking long?! This place is insane, I can't have Estocolmo and Cinci staying here!"

"Wait. Stop," Andrés grabbed the younger man by the shoulders. "What do you mean, _insane_ , what's going on?"

"That stupid record player, for one thing. It wouldn't stop playing yesterday, so I broke it. Smashed it against the floor. And then the fucking _Felicità,_ you know the one, _na na na na-na_ , God, I'm getting chills- it woke me up at night! The recorder was playing again, fixed, as if I haven't done anything to it, but I know I did!"

Denver looked scared shitless, so Andrés put his hand on the back of his neck, pulling him in until they were face to face.

"Calm down. We're going to deal with this. Did anyone get hurt?"

"No," Denver choked out, but his expression was determined now, one of his hands coming to rest against Andrés' elbow. "But the Professor is looking really bad. Lisbon says he only sleeps when he basically passes out. We can't work like that."

"I'll go talk to him. You go and gather everyone else in the chapel."

Denver nodded. He went ahead, jogging, and Andrés followed.

"So I'm guessing it didn't work," Andrés said casually, looking down at his brother. He flinched when a book fell from a shelf behind his back. "Fuck."

Sergio didn't even look up at him, didn't say anything. Andrés supposed he didn't have the strength to do so.

"You're the only one seeing him," he said through gritted teeth, because he still didn't understand how _that_ worked. "You're getting the worst of it. But judging by Denver's state, no one can function properly. Take them out of here, to my old safehouse in Florence. For a day. I'll look for a solution in the meantime and once you're back, once you've rested, we'll try out whatever new measures I can find."

Sergio nodded slowly. Andrés pressed his lips into a thin line, crouching down to be at eye-level with him. He was still angry at Sergio, of course, but seeing him this way was surreal. He reminded Andrés of the kid he'd taken in all those years ago - lonely and lost, filled with guilt and regret after the death of his father.

Sergio finally looked up, but he only glanced at Andrés before moving his gaze to the corner of the room. His lips twitched and Andrés was surprised to see that behind the fear in his eyes, there was something else.

Something like an apology. 


	5. Chapter 5

Both Helsinki and Nairobi declared that they would stay with Andrés at the monastery, but he told them no. He appreciated their loyalty, but he'd already gotten some rest and all of them needed it too.

Besides, there was a part of him that wanted to be left alone there. 

They left in the afternoon, with Sergio hugging Andrés tightly before he stepped into the car.

Andrés walked back to the monastery and scowled when the door opened itself before him and then slammed shut once he was inside. He hated being played with like that.

He managed to eat something before going to the chapel, where he surrounded himself with books and began searching once again.

The first problem with research was that different sources stated different things. The part about burning the bones appeared multiple times, but some of the texts suggested salting the earth, too, which Andrés hasn't done. There were some spells, too, and rituals, but he still wasn't convinced that the shamanism would do any good.

The second problem was the fucking recorder, playing _Felicità_ on repeat from the moment Andrés had stepped into the chapel. He was doing his best to ignore it, as well as the things that began moving around him.

Andrés focused all the harder on the books, but of _fucking_ course, the pages started flipping themselves on their own. It was driving him mad.

" _Stop that_ ," he barked, feeling stupid for talking to a _ghost_ , to nothing but a piece of what once was his friend, now torn apart.

The rustling of paper stopped for a moment. Then, agonizingly slowly, one of the pages tore itself out of the book Andrés was holding. He couldn't do anything but stare as the same thing happened to another page, and another, the ripping sound deafening in the suddenly quiet chapel, because the record stopped playing for the first time in an hour.

Andrés gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, but he was _powerless._ The tattered pages began falling around him like autumn leaves. _Autumn leaves_ , he thought and remembered that Martín liked the song, that besides rock and latino, he liked jazz, too, that when they enjoyed a glass of wine on a calm, cozy evening, Martín would-

Andrés hadn't noticed the record being switched, too busy looking at the pages and thinking back to the old days, but suddenly, the old days were there, the sounds of Chet Baker's trumpet and Paul Desmond's saxophone coming from the player, light and elegant and sentimental and _wonderful_. Andrés forgot about his anger, it slipped away from him within seconds, replaced with a feeling of familiarity.

For the first time since he stepped back into the monastery, he felt at home again.

He let out a sigh and stretched out on the chaise longue he was sitting in, letting the soft music wash over him.

Before he knew it, he was asleep.

It was surprising to be awoken by Sergio, firstly because Andrés has somehow managed to sleep through the night and secondly, because he didn't expect for his brother to be back before noon.

"Andrés," he breathed. "What happened to the books?"

"Take a wild guess, _hermanito,_ " Andrés muttered, rubbing at his eyes as he sat up, wincing at the pain in his neck. He was getting old, which was quite an unexpected thing.

"I figured it out."

Andrés froze, his mind clearing up in seconds. He looked up and saw Sergio staring at him with a weird mixture of worry, guilt and excitement, no doubt coming from the fact that he seemed to think he'd solved the puzzle. It was good to see that particular emotion on his face, as well as to see it less tired, less pale. The idea with the safehouse must've worked.

"The others?"

"I gave them another day. Came back on my own."

"Show me."

Sergio nodded determinedly, then helped Andrés up and motioned for him to follow in his steps, walking out of the chapel.

"I was so exhausted, I didn't pay enough attention- anyway, one of the books said that, well, _ghosts_ would sometimes attach themselves to objects, especially if they held some sentimental value. The person who told me about-... about Martín, the elderly lady, she said that when they were getting rid of his things, she decided to keep something," Sergio explained on the way. He stopped in front of his room and opened the door; clearly, he saw something inside, because he flinched and dropped his gaze immediately. Andrés put a hand on his shoulder.

"What did she keep?" he asked softly.

Sergio gestured towards his open suitcase.

"A watch. It should be in there and-"

His brother began explaining about how the lady offered it to him, about how it felt right to accept, to at least keep this one thing, but Andrés was barely listening. He walked into the unnaturally cold room and fell to his knees next to the suitcase, throwing away some carefully folded clothes until he saw it.

A watch, a silver watch, a simple thing, a gift. One that _he_ had given Martín.

Maybe the last thing that felt his pulse.

Andrés remembered with painful clarity how it scraped against his neck when he'd pushed Martín against the wall, when he'd kissed him; no one has ever learned about that, not Tatiana nor Sergio.

It was as if Martín was his, a carefully guarded secret, or a treasure.

He gritted his teeth against the sound that threatened to tear its way out of his throat and closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself. When he spoke, his voice was strained, but strong enough.

"I suppose we have to destroy it."

Before Sergio could answer, the suitcase slammed shut and slid across the floor before hitting the wall. Andrés looked up at his brother to see him _sad_ , of all things, which again, didn't make any sense. Sergio flinched and moved away from the door, which closed itself a moment later.

There was silence.

"I think…" Sergio began quietly after a few seconds. "Maybe you should see for yourself. Then decide what to do."

Andrés pressed his lips into a thin line.

"What if I don't want to?"

"You're scared."

"No."

"Yes. I don't know what you're imagining, but I think you should see. Take the watch and-... go look for him. Maybe there's another way."

Sergio spoke in riddles, but he was right about one thing. Andrés was scared; frightened. He's dedicated his life to beauty and yet, right now, it felt like he was facing the one thing he couldn't bring himself to do in Palermo.

Opening the casket.

He opened the suitcase again and pulled out the watch, unable to supress the chill that ran down his spine as he fastened it around his wrist.

Sergio didn't say anything as Andrés got to his feet and walked out, heading - on instinct - towards the chapel.  
  


It was quiet and it seemed empty as he walked in, the recorder wasn't playing and nothing was moving. He stepped further in, his heart pounding furiously against his ribs, his fingers twitching uncontrollably.

"Martín?" he called in a hushed tone and waited a beat. Then, to his right, he heard _breathing.  
_

For a moment, he was paralyzed. He expected to see the worst things imaginable, the ones he'd read about in books, the drawings he saw - a wraith with burning eyes, with a face twisted in fury; a shadow with no eyes at all, mouth opening in a silent cry; a revenant, rotting and infested with maggots, a crawling picture of decay.

He turned around and what he saw was worse.

He saw _Martín_.

He saw him standing there, looking like himself, only- slightly smudged; his body exactly the same, his hands, big and warm even if slightly rough, his soft hair, his face and cheeks and lips and his _eyes,_ blue and sad and filled with tears; he was crying, he was _crying_ just as when Andrés has left him, he looked just as when Andrés has left him, as if he'd _waited_ , as if five years haven't passed, as if Andrés has just turned around and came back, as he should have-

God, he should have, he should've gone back when the tears were still fresh on his own cheeks, or maybe in the morning when Martín still hasn't left, he should've come back and hold him, and not let him go, and tell him that _I love you_ meant _I love you_ and nothing less, never anything less, and take him to Toledo and to the Mint, he could have convinced Sergio, maybe-

Or maybe he could have gone back after the Mint heist, ask for forgiveness that he knew he would have been granted, in the end, maybe it wouldn't have been too late, because while Andrés was swallowing the experimental medicine to prolong his life, Martín was poisoning himself, while he was sunbathing on a yacht in Philippines, Martín was wasting away, bit by bit, slowly, awfully-

He should've felt something, he thought. They were _soulmates_. Even thousands of kilometers away, he should've somehow known-

The days in paradise have been all similar to one another and on one of them, while Andrés was sleeping or eating or lying on the beach, Martín has died in his little flat in Palermo.

Alone.

He only registered falling to his knees when Martín's gaze shifted and followed him.

" _I'm sorry_."


	6. Chapter 6

"I'm sorry," was the only thing that came to Andrés' mind, the only logical conclusion to all of his thoughts, the only feeling left in him; it was raw. It sounded stupid, and pitiful, and definitely not enough, how could anything be ever enough?

His intentions were good, he knew that for sure, he'd never stopped believing it, because it hurt to do what he had done, and yet, he kept away.

What did it matter, though, in the end? The tragedy there was simple; he's misunderstood. For the first time ever, he's misunderstood Martín.

Martín stood before him, infinitely sad, and Andrés almost whined when he spoke. His voice was the same, but distant, a painful reminder that he was gone. There and elsewhere, and nowhere, all at the same time.

"What did you think would happen? You thought I would have a- a normal life? How would that look like? A job from nine to five, a boyfriend, trips to Ustica on weekends? When I've already tasted glory? When I've tasted _you_?" 

Andrés recalled with painful clarity the expression on Martín's face whenever they spoke about heists, whenever they spoke about _this one_ , the biggest, the greatest. 

The most dangerous.

He recalled the way Martín melted against his lips and under his hands. 

"I've given everything to you, and you've taken it, gladly, until you didn't want it anymore. You've wiped your mouth with it and thrown it all away."

"That's not what happened."

"What is, then?" 

"The plan was faulty. Suicidal, as Sergio said. I would do it, I had nothing to lose, but you-" 

"All I had to lose was you and the plan. And I did."

"That's what you're telling yourself."

"No. You've kept me so close for so long only to throw me out. You've said you loved me, made me think there was a chance, made me show my affections just to push me away. I've kept it all to myself for ten years and you-... Do you have any idea how _humiliating_ it was? You made your grand exit, but I had to stay the night and pack my things, and walk out of here, on my own, and leave. There was nothing romantic about it, nothing poetic. There was nothing poetic about the pain, because there was no point to it; there was nothing beautiful in the despair, the drinking, the dying. There was only decay and rot, and that, too, is no poetic metaphor."

Martín laughed, the sound bitter and broken, and Andrés' head snapped up. 

"Took them two weeks to find me."

That's when the tears spilled; when Andrés forgot about whatever pride he himself had left, bowing his head, because the pain was too much, because Martín was there alone, dead and alone, for _two weeks_ , left to rot like he was nothing, like he didn't matter and up until now-

No one has cried for him up until now.

"You've seen the grave, haven't you? I followed Sergio there. A pathetic thing. Fitting, really. A pathetic grave for pathetic, disgusting, _broken_ me. I'm guessing you've destroyed it, huh? With the whole… _burning the bones_ affair. I was still naive enough to believe that you wouldn't try to get rid of me, again."

Andrés groaned, rubbing at his eyes furiously. 

"That's not what this is all about."

"No?" Martín snarled, his face twisted with the worst emotions - anger and bitterness, and heartbreak. "Seems to me like I'm nothing but an inconvenience to you. Like you're trying to forget everything about me. Like I never even existed. But, dear Andrés, I did. I still do. I'm here."

"You're not!" Andrés got back to his feet, fists tightening in anger, in frustration, nails digging into palms and providing some relief - a sharp pain, grounding, reminding him of his plane of reality, the one that Martín has foolishly abandoned instead of taking the chance that Andrés has given him. 

Martín stared with wide eyes. 

"What good are you to me? A ghost, like a child's tale, a shadow! What's there to be done? There's no going back, no fixing this," Andrés stepped closer. Maybe he was going senseless, losing himself completely, but he reached out, raising his hand in front of Martín, who understood immediately, because of course he did. His expression sank even more as he raised his own hand and put it against Andrés'. 

It felt like putting one's hand in ice cold water. Less tangible, even; there was no texture, just endless, frightening _cold_.

"I can't even touch you," Andrés said quietly, letting some of his own heartbreak slip into his voice.

Then, he pulled away, and turned on his heel to leave the chapel. Martín called after him, agitated, judging by the flickering of lights, but he ignored him. He was angry at Sergio for making him face Martín. He was angry at Martín for being… almost there. _Almost._

Andrés was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when Sergio came in. 

"I don't know what to do," he admitted before his brother could even speak. Sergio frowned, shuffling his feet. 

"I thought seeing him might help you."

"Well, it didn't. That's not… a ghost. It's Martín. But then again, it's not. Because he's dead. Because I've abandoned him and haven't checked on him _once._ "

"You thought he'd be alright," Sergio said quietly and Andrés felt his lips curl up in a half-smile, pained but honest. He patted the bed next to him and Sergio sat down on it, then lay down.

"Did I?" Andrés wondered out loud, looking up again. Doubt crept in for the first time and made him feel sick. "Maybe I knew, deep down. Maybe that's why I never checked." 

He felt Sergio's eyes on him, but he only reached out to grasp his wrist, feel the pulse with trembling fingers, reassure himself that Sergio was there, safe, warm, breathing.

"There are too many _maybes,_ too many _what ifs._ What if I never broke the bond? What if I checked on him and took him back in, and took care of him? What if-" 

He paused. His throat was tight. 

"What if we were lovers, instead of friends? What if I understood what he felt, to what extent? What if I loved him back?" 

"Did you?" Sergio whispered. It was an honest question, without a hint of surprise or malice. 

"I did. I do."

They were quiet for a long moment. Faint music echoed inside the walls of the monastery; Martín was playing the recorder again, now switching between different songs. 

Alone. Again. Because Andrés walked out on him. Again. 

Andrés had to grit his teeth not to whimper at the thought, at everything he's done wrong, at how hopeless it all felt. There were no more moves to make - he's lost. He's gambled and he's lost, completely, terribly. 

He thought about Martín being there for every single one of his weddings, every single one of his divorces. Never complaining _once_ , used to pain, used to sadness; no wonder he'd drowned. 

"Every problem can be pulled apart. Divided into pieces that you can observe from different angles, analyze them thoroughly to understand their nature and, bit by bit, come up with possible solutions," Sergio said suddenly and Andrés glanced at him. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling; there was a small crease between his brows, but his voice was calm, carefully measured. "Some problems, I've found, are different. They seem complicated, layered, but once you boil them down, you find their core and-... sometimes, they are very simple."

Andrés chewed on his bottom lip, turning his gaze away.

"And how, pray tell, is any of this simple?" he growled, not meaning to sound angry, but he was frustrated and tired beyond words. 

"Forget about the circumstances, forget about everything you know about your situation. Ask yourself, what does Martín _want_ ? What is it that _you_ want, what you really want, more than anything?" 

They both went quiet again. Andrés remembered every single moment when he wished he could go to Palermo. He dreamt, without limits, as if death was nothing. 

"Sergio," he said finally, smiling. "You have the soul of a romantic, after all."

They ate dinner together. Martín didn't show up, which wasn't a surprise, considering Andrés' earlier words. Just like five years before, he didn't fight back. 

"Are you sure you want be to go back to Florence for the night?" 

"I'm sure," Andrés gave Sergio a reassuring smile. He felt calm. Peaceful, even. More so than in the last few years. "He'd never hurt me, not really."

"We should be back in early morning. I hope they didn't destroy your safehouse, I'm pretty sure Denver already found your liquor cabinet," Sergio murmured, frowning. 

Andrés laughed at him, waving a hand. 

"They deserve to get drunk after what Martín's put them through," he said, not managing to keep fondness out of his voice. 

Sergio only sighed.

In the evening, when Sergio took the car and left, Andrés made sure to light every candle around the monastery before he walked to the chapel.

He found it empty, but then again, Martín could disappear however he liked. Andrés hummed, lighting the candles there, too, bathing the walls in warm, yellow light. He ran his fingers over the records and pulled out _Felicità_. 

Once the sound filled the room, Andrés could easily imagine that he was younger, that none of this has ever happened. When he turned around, Martín was there, frowning, pursing his lips like a child, his eyes filled with doubt. 

"Have you finally come to the point of burning sage, Andrés?" he asked, trying for mocking, but coming off as unsure. 

"No, Martín. I've come to ask you," Andrés smiled, relaxed and- happy, even. Happy to see him. "What is it that you want?" 

Martín clicked his tongue, and blew out one of the candles, just to show off.

"The plan was yours and mine. Not just yours. Not Sergio's. Mine," he hissed, the sound resonating in the chapel, something straight out of a horror movie. 

Andrés wasn't scared. 

"Of course. But that's not what I'm asking. Forget about death. What is it that you want?" 

Martín's gaze was searching. When Andrés kept smiling at him, he slowly broke into a smile of his own, a wonderful, bright thing. 

"You," he said. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooooo what a ride  
> Don't forget to let me know what you think once you're done!

Sergio sobs in Marsella's arms, they have to get going, get out of Madrid, get to their meeting point so that he can hold Raquel again, so that he can hold all of them, all of his self-made family, but still, he cries and he cries and he cries, even though he knew. 

He knew because for the past few weeks, Andrés has been slipping through his fingers. It's like he was dying even before he died. 

The haunting stopped. When Andrés explained to everyone else what was going on, and that there was nothing to fear, he'd said _my dearest friend_ , but Sergio knew he meant: _my dearest._

 _Too many maybes, too many what ifs._ Andrés said it and Sergio felt it, he feels it now, more than ever.

What if Sergio had trusted Martín? What if he had taken him to Toledo, what if he'd included him in the Mint heist? Maybe he would have been a good addition. Maybe he wouldn't have died, then. Maybe Sergio wouldn't have to stand before a miserable grave, thinking: _it's my fault, it's my fault, it's my fault._

 _Sorry_ couldn't describe what he'd felt, then, realizing that he'd taken Andrés away from him - even though Andrés followed him _willingly_ , even though it was his own decision. Still, it felt like taking away, it felt like stealing, because, yes, a part of him was jealous of Martín, of course it was, a part of him was triumphant when Andrés said _let's do yours._

He's known Martín for almost as long as Andrés has. He knew his quirks and the sound of his laughter, he knew how smart he was, how passionate. But it didn't matter then - the Mint heist did. 

_Let's do yours_ , Andrés said, and Sergio should have said: _let's convince Martín._ Maybe he would have agreed. If it meant staying by Andrés' side, of course he would have. 

Maybe they would have been friends. Maybe family. Until Raquel, Sergio's only family has been Andrés, but maybe, just _maybe_ , he could have had another brother. Maybe he did, and he-... didn't realize. Not until it was too late, not until the only thing that he could do was to buy flowers and put them on the naked, dusted, rough stone. 

Maybe he should have told Andrés about Martín right away. Maybe he shouldn't have told him at all, but what good would that have done, what it would have changed? Nothing, in the end. Martín was ready to wreak havoc, he did everything he could to make himself present, of course he did, after so much time and so much pain, of course he did. 

Sergio cries when he has his arms full of Raquel, and when Helsinki hugs him, and when Río does, saying _I'm sorry_ over and over again, as if he wasn't worth it, as if it wasn't a war. As if it wasn't Andrés' choice. 

Sergio cries, because he's relieved to see them, to touch them, because they're alive and _there,_ while Andrés is gone. 

He could have stayed silent and let Andrés destroy the watch. He could have stayed silent and let Martín disappear, let him slip away into darkness, into nothingness. 

Or what if he had begged? What if he had fallen to his knees and begged for Martín to leave? Maybe Martín would have listened. He would have done anything for Andrés' sake, of course, of course, always. 

Sergio knew that very well, that was one of the reasons why the Bank heist was an idea he wanted scraped, because while Andrés was sure that he had little time left, Martín had more than that, he had a whole lifetime. Wasn't life a thing of unlimited possibilities? A synthesis of little infinities. And yet it seemed like for Martín, life began and ended with Andrés. 

Sergio could have begged, yes, and maybe, his wish would have been granted. Martín would have left, and Andrés would have become slightly more bitter, just like the last time, slightly more closed off, slightly more cruel, but he would have _stayed._ He was by no means a weak man, he was stubborn, he would have kept on living if only Sergio had stayed silent, or if he'd begged. 

But he didn't and so, Andrés had kept the watch fastened around his wrist until the very end. Sergio could only catch glimpses of Martín by his side, but he didn't have to see him all the time to know that he was with Andrés, because his brother kept looking; in class or at the dinner table, Andrés would keep on looking to the side, because Martín was there. 

Andrés didn't lose interest in the heist, but he'd lost interest in everything else, slipping away, walking the corridors and the yard, seemigly alone, or disappearing in his room; the others said it too, that sometimes, they would hear two voices coming from behind the doors, quiet, soft; whispered conversations that lasted for hours.

Sometimes, there was silence. Once, Sergio walked into the room and found Andrés on the bed, head tilted to the side, away from the door, unmoving, his hand stretched out. Sergio didn't need to ask what he was looking at. 

Sergio could have stayed silent, or he could have begged, but he didn't. 

They travel for days and he tells Raquel the whole story, because it's a story that demands to be told, that needs to be heard, especially by someone who loves as much as Raquel does. 

He says it all, he tells her about his guilt, his grief; she holds him and he's never been more grateful for her. 

When they find their way back to Raquel's mother and daughter, Sergio has tears in his eyes. He spends a long moment hugging Paula, and when the girl asks about Berlín, he looks at Raquel, helpless like a child himself. 

_He's stayed with a friend,_ is what Raquel tells Paula, because they will explain, they will explain everything to her once she gets older.

If Sergio had stayed silent, or if he'd begged, maybe Andrés would be there and there would be no half-truths to be told. 

But Sergio didn't. 

He didn't, because that would have been unfair. He's seen the look at Martín's face too many times during their stay at the monastery; he's seen the pain, the absolute heartbreak.

He's heard his neighbour talking about him, how he would rarely leave his apartment, how every time she saw him, he was getting paler and thinner, how she was surprised to find out that, apparently, he didn't have neither family nor friends. 

He's seen the grave with no date of death, and he's felt the weight of the watch in his hand, the only thing that was left. Martín's clothes, his guitar, his books - all of it was taken away, because there was no one there to claim it. 

He remembered the moment he realized that Martín was in love with Andrés and even though he didn't understand the depth of it yet, he still wondered, looking at him, how could he have stayed for so many years, through so many weddings, through everything.

Martín was so hurt, so heartbroken, so unable to move on. Sergio couldn't bring himself to tell him to leave. 

Whatever conflict there was between them, all three of them, there were no winners. 

Their new home awaits in Sri Lanka. It's secluded, but situated near a village where they can get their necessities. The house is huge, secure, beautiful; very bright thanks to huge windows. There's access to the beach, not unlike in Palawan. 

Sergio walks around the place and he can't help but imagine Andrés by his side, commenting on the decor, snarky and ironic, but with warmth in his tone nevertheless. Teasing him, like older brothers do. 

He walks to the beach and, watching the beautiful sunset, the colors that would bring a smile to Andrés' face, he wonders if he should feel lucky. 

Objectively, he had the most luck out of the three of them. He has Raquel, and Paula, and Mariví. He has money and gold. He's still breathing, he can smell the breeze, feel it ruffling his hair, he can see the spectacle of colors before him. No poison has killed him, no bullets have pierced him, and yet, and still-

Everything is wrong. The plan that seemed impossible has worked; Martín, meant to be saved, has died; Andrés, meant to lead, has followed. Sergio, who only had his brother, now has everything but him. 

Regret rests heavily on his shoulders as he walks back to the house, as he kisses Raquel's cheek and tells her he's going to lie down, as he walks up the stairs and into the bedroom. 

It eases instantly, _wonderfully,_ when he looks up at his reflection in the tall windows. The sky is dark, with the last traces of sun burning red on the horizon, mirrored by the ocean and for a brief moment, he sees them both. 

They're standing behind him, the curve of Martín's smile apologetic, their stances relaxed, their arms around each other's shoulders. 

There's a hint of sadness in their eyes, but Andrés' grin is wide and proud. 

They look happier than Sergio has ever seen them and, somehow, he feels like some day, maybe soon, he can be happy, too. 


End file.
